


Keepsakes

by stepantrofimovic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, But Mostly fluffy, Crack-ish, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, M/M, this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written how did this happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson may be in the running for SHIELD's best handler, but this doesn't mean he's entirely free of shortcomings. His habit of showing off his competency is one of them. Clint Barton is looking for an occasion to break Coulson's flow, and a prank opportunity ends up turning into something more.</p><p>(I honestly don't know how to summarize this. There's a cat, though.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keepsakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallToMuster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallToMuster/gifts).



> This is for CallToMuster, who allowed me to use [this conversation](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/post/126770636273/calltomuster-stepantrofimovic) on Tumblr as a prompt. (The fic will probably make more sense if you've seen the post, so do click through.) Feel free to blame her for the idea, and me for the ~~ridiculously fluffy~~ execution.
> 
> I regret nothing.

Working with Agent Coulson, Clint Barton reasoned, wasn’t at all bad. It had only taken a couple of missions for him to confirm that the man was every bit the uber-competent, professional, cool-under-fire Agent’s Agent he was rumored to be. Getting assigned Coulson as a handler was one of the best things a SHIELD operative could hope for: detailed preliminary briefings, a clear head in the field and, above all, an unexpected compassion and willingness to listen to subordinates’ suggestions (provided that they were reasonable, of course) – all these were traits Clint had learned to value in his short permanence at SHIELD. His record of insubordination complaints from other handlers might have seemed to tell otherwise, but since he was under Coulson’s care even those had dropped down to zero. From the outside (that is, from Director Fury’s perspective, or so Clint guessed), Agent Barton’s partnership with Agent Coulson looked like a match made in heaven, and wasn’t likely to be broken anytime soon.

Plus, Coulson was not at all bad-looking, which counted as a big plus in Clint’s book.

There were, of course, a few downsides to be expected to this kind of working idyll. Phil Coulson might have been in the running for SHIELD’s best handler, but this didn’t mean he was entirely free of shortcomings. Perhaps the thing that grated on Clint’s nerves the most, at the moment, was the fact that his handler was perfectly aware of his reputation as Most Competent BAMF at SHIELD, and didn’t miss an opportunity to take advantage of it. Need to scare off a junior agent who was getting a little too cocky? Witness Coulson absent-mindedly start twirling a paperclip between his fingers, well aware of the fact that, during every Orientation Week, Jasper Sitwell took care to narrate the epic tale of the time he’d incapacitated two enemy operatives with the same tool. Local law enforcement threatening to stick their head too far into SHIELD’s business? Agent Coulson shows up and either charms his way out of the situation or, more often, makes up some sort of bio/nuclear threat to scare them off. Time-bomb about to explode? Agent Coulson walks away calmly while everyone else is running for their life, because he knows exactly when the bomb is going to go off and of course he won't run if he doesn’t need to.

And then there was the time Coulson had emerged from a burning building without so much as a soot stain on his suit, and when an awestruck subordinate had asked how this was possible, the man had had the gall to answer, “That’s classified.”

So, yeah, Clint Barton was actively looking for an occasion to break Coulson’s flow, or at least to make him look _a little_ less in control than usual.

(This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Coulson’s little shows of competency were doing very inappropriate things to Clint’s libido. Nothing at all. Shut up.)

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the occasion was offered by Coulson himself – or, to be exact, by another of his favorite mannerisms (one that helped maintain his fame as a model of unflappability, that is).

It ran like this: every time they needed to kick down a door (which was an unsurprisingly frequent occurrence in their line of work), Agent Coulson wouldn’t actually, y’know, raise his leg and kick it down (this would probably have creased his suit or something, Clint guessed) – he would merely stick a hand out, say nothing, and _poof_ , out of nowhere a small explosive device would appear in his palm, ready to be used to blow up the lock in perfect super-spy style. The trick, of course, worked courtesy of the couple of lower-level agents who constantly followed Coulson around (“constantly” meaning “any time there was no actual risk whatsoever” – and yes, Clint might have been a little resentful towards this kind of people, but not jealous, of course not, _shut up_ ), trying to anticipate his every wish in the hope of a quick promotion or some other kind of favor. The fact that no one, as far as Clint knew, had ever gotten anything out of this kind of behavior just went to confirm that Coulson wasn’t a complete idiot, despite his habit of showing off.

Still, the moderately ridiculous fact that Coulson just stuck out a hand and some minion was always ready to place a mini-bomb in it was there. And, in Clint’s eyes, it was nothing less than a prank opportunity waiting to be seized.

The next time they found themselves facing a locked-door situation, Coulson stuck out his hand without looking, waiting for the required dose of explosives. Before the minion-of-the-day could make a move, however, Clint reached out, lightning-fast, took a big wad of chewed gum out of his own mouth, and placed it in Coulson’s palm.

Coulson, of course, went on automatically with his routine, and stuck the piece of (bright pink) gum straight over the lock. Then he looked down at his hand, back up at Clint’s shit-eating grin and at the confused agent who was still standing there holding a (thankfully unactivated) mini-bomb – and he burst out laughing.

In that moment, Clint Barton realized two things. One, that Phil Coulson might have valued his reputation of unflappability a lot, but this didn’t mean he didn’t know how to take a prank. Two, that Phil Coulson’s startled, spontaneous laugh, the kind that made him double down a little and multiplied the crinkles around his eyes and mouth, made a suspicious warmth blossom in Clint’s chest.

_Aw, no._

***

The second time they were facing a locked-door situation, Clint shouldered his way past the minion in charge and placed one of his arrowheads in Coulson’s hand. Which turned out to be a bad choice when Coulson just looked at it calmly, rolled it between his fingers, and proceeded to pick the lock with it in 30 seconds flat. Then he raised his eyebrows at Clint, smirked, and said, “That’s the best you can come up with, Barton?”

The game was _on_.

***

From that day onwards, it became their thing: every time Agent Coulson held his hand out for explosives or whatever device he needed, Clint would race to put something completely random in it instead. If Coulson laughed, Clint counted it as a win. If he didn’t – well, Clint learned soon enough that there was a bunch of other interesting reactions to be elicited from his favorite handler.

Most of the time, Clint just went with whatever random shit he could find. A bouncing ball (the fact that it was acid green and covered in glitter was a bonus), a cool rock that might have been obsidian but again it might not, a paper crane – Coulson had smiled fondly at that, which made Clint feel kind of giddy, especially since he’d folded it himself –, one of those hula dancer statuettes that oscillated with every little movement. Once, he gave Coulson a key, only to have him reflexively try to fit it in the lock a couple of times – it wasn’t the right key, of course, and Coulson’s face scrunched up in an utterly adorable way before he burst out laughing at his own silliness once again.

Then, of course, there was the Cap-themed objects category. Clint started with them as soon as he found out about Coulson’s obsession with memorabilia – which was, coincidentally, not much earlier than the moment they started to call each other by their first names, at least in private. Over the years, Phil received, among other things, a stress ball shaped like Captain America’s shield (not very practical, as Clint was informed a few days later), a cupcake covered in red, white and blue icing, a tacky key-chain with a photo of Steve Rogers in his USO spandex uniform, and, on one memorable occasion, a condom wrapped in crisp red, white and blue cellophane (“ _Barton!_ ”).

On Phil’s birthday, Clint always tried to find something nicer to give him, under the pretense of their little routine: one of the few missing Captain America cards for his collection (and damn but that one had been hard to find), or a tie-shaped silver tie clip (“What is this, Barton? _Yo, dawg, heard you like ties, so we put a tie on your tie so you can_ …” “… and this is why we should never have let you find out about memes, Coulson”). After they’d brought Natasha in – okay, after _Clint_ had brought Natasha in, which led to a month of him and Phil barely speaking to each other –, Clint had given Phil a small red glass-blown spider he’d bought in Venice, and Phil had smiled at him for the first time in what felt like ages.

Of course, every time Phil looked tired, or upset, or just not entirely up to his usual badass agent persona, Clint would whip out the food. This was a bit trickier than his usual random crap, as the time he’d placed a full travel mug of coffee in Phil’s hand only to have him narrowly avoid spilling it all over himself had taught him (“Jesus, Barton, warn a guy, will you?” – and then Phil had noticed Clint’s hurt look and apologized for being rude on the plane back to base). Still, there was plenty of candy, and chocolate, and saltwater taffy (the look of utter bliss on Phil’s face that time had stayed in Clint’s mind for weeks); a banana and, on the next available occasion, a hot dog (“I feel like you’re trying to give a message of some sort here, Barton”); a chocolate donut (“I appreciate the thought, but I prefer the powdered ones”); a powdered donut (“Lovely, but the chocolate ones are still better”); a small pile composed of a chocolate donut, a powdered donut, and a note on top that read _MAKE UP YOUR FREAKING MIND <3_ in block capitals – the list went on.

***

At one point during the mission that would soon become known simply as “Budapest”, Coulson held out his hand, and Clint wordlessly placed one of his spare guns in it.

“I guess this is your way to tell me we’re fucked, Barton.”

***

It got to the point where Phil felt kind of disappointed when he held out his hand and someone other than Clint actually gave him the item he needed. The day he became aware of that, Natasha was there, and the way she raised her eyebrows at him was eloquent enough that they never needed to talk about it again.

***

The kitten, Clint had to admit, might have been a little too much, even for his standards.

But.

But she was so tiny, a calico kitten no more than one month old, curled up on top of a garbage can at the mouth of the alley they were waiting for their target in, and it was raining and _maybe_ Clint’s mind had flashed back a bit to the times he’d been closer to her situation than the one he was currently in. So, when Phil held out his hand to the nearest low-level agent for a spare comm link (yeah, the minions were still there, even after years of Coulson not helping anyone get a promotion and Barton pushing them out of the way for his pranks), Clint acted on impulse and placed the shivering, sopping wet mess of a kitten in his palm instead.

Phil felt the unexpected weight, looked down, and muttered, “Aw, Barton, you know I can’t keep a damn cat.”

In that moment, for the first time, Clint thought about the paper crane which had somehow found a spot on a shelf in Phil’s office, next to the green bouncing ball, the hula dancer, and the cool rock that was most definitely not obsidian (but it was still cool). He thought about the key-chain Phil kept Lola’s keys on, and the slightly-torn Cap’s shield stress ball that could always be found in the vicinity of his desk, not to mention the glass spider he kept on his bedside table (better not ask how Clint knew about that – he absolutely hadn’t pretended not to find the bathroom the first time he’d been invited to Phil’s house).

Clint thought about all these things, and realized that maybe Natasha had a point when she said they were the worst pair of idiots she’d ever met.

In the meantime, Phil had slipped the cat into a pocket of his tac suit, making sure she was as comfortable as possible. A couple of hours later, in his office, he would wash her clean of the mud as delicately as he could, towel her dry and warm, and then proceed to make Clint’s insides do some very funny things at the sight of him feeding the kitten tepid milk with a dropper and gently rubbing her belly so she could pee.

“I called my landlord. She’s staying,” Phil announced to the room at large (which meant Clint, Natasha, Hill and Sitwell, who had somehow managed not to miss the opportunity to sneak a few photos of Phil and the cat as “future blackmail material”). “I’m going to call her Peggy, and the first one to say anything about it gets the privilege of taking her to the vet for spaying.”

(When, half an hour later, Fury walked into Phil’s office with the express purpose of teasing him “for giving his cat the nerdiest name he could think of”, Natasha was the only one who managed to keep a straight face.)

***

The day after the incident with the kitten, Phil and Clint were comfortably sprawled on Phil’s sofa, halfway into their weekly pizza-and-movie night (it had been a tradition of theirs for a couple of years now, and yes, Nat was right, they _were_ idiots). Peggy was curled up (or, well, the best kitten approximation of “curled up”) in her brand new cat bed, seemingly content with actively ignoring the two men in the room.

Not so long after the movie started, Phil rested his hand lightly on the sofa between them, palm up. It took a few seconds for Clint to catch up and put his own hand in Phil’s, tangling their fingers together. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phil smiling.

They sat there in silence for the rest of the movie, neither of them wishing to move past that first, comfortable point of contact, even though Clint felt his pulse quicken and his skin tingle in giddy anticipation. After the credits rolled, Phil tensed for a moment as if he was about to get up. Then he turned towards Clint instead. He was still smiling softly, and really, there was no reason for Clint not to lean in and kiss him there and then. So he did. Then he did it again, just to hear the adorable little sigh Phil made when his lips touched Clint's one more time. And then again, because Phil’s hand had found its way into his hair and was gently pinning him in place, so there wasn’t much else to do. Not that Clint wanted to do much else, he thought, as some still-functioning part of his brain dimly registered the fact that he was feeling light-headed just because of a few slow kisses.

When they finally pulled apart (well, not by much, to be honest), Phil rested his forehead lightly against Clint’s and murmured, “I was really looking forward to taking you out for a proper dinner, you know.”

“Okay,” Clint smiled, still a bit breathless. “We can do that.” Then he added, fondly, “Sap.”

***

The next time Phil held out his hand for something, Clint dropped a business card from a small Italian restaurant in it. And if sometimes he fantasized about the day he was going to give Phil a ring in the same way, well, it was nobody’s business. For now.

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken the liberty to refer to CallToMuster's own fic, Orientation Week. [Go check it out.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3682230)
> 
> Also, since I've mentioned this, public service announcement: if you ever find a small kitten, don't assume you know how to take care of it. Call your vet. The little things are incredibly fragile. Trust me, I've been there (the kitten survived, btw, but barely).
> 
> As you may already have guessed, I now have [a tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/). Come say hi, and keep an eye on how ~~I'm stuck~~ my writing on the companion piece to Something Blue is progressing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Promises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123009) by [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic)




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